The Means to an End
by Limey
Summary: A fated assignment, a mind full of resentment... a look into the end of an era, and the birth of the next.


**Title:** The Means to an End  
**Word Count:** 1,081  
**Fandom:** Rurouni Kenshin  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** This character is not mine (thank God). I hope the cuss words and gore won't deter you.  
**Summary:** A fated assignment, a mind full of resentment… a look into the end of an era, and the birth of the next.

This is not my usual cup of tea, but I'll explain it below. Enjoy.

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_The Means to an End._

The battle came and went without incident; heroes were both created and destroyed by the fickle threads of fate. He watched with an impassive eye as the defeated carried off their dead while the victors looted those not yet carried away.

_Idiots,_ he mused with a sneer. _What a frivolous way to die._

The dust had not settled from the initial charge, and it was difficult to see who had won by numbers due to the sheer number of casualties. He squinted nonetheless, lips pursed at the stench of blood and body fluids in the air; and recalled the argument that ended with his assignment to the grimy field.

_'My talents are wasted on such an assignment,' he'd replied, teeth clenched. 'This is a disgrace!'_

_His commander__ turned to face him, h__is__ eyes unreadable. 'Perhaps that is why it was assigned to you.' _

_Before he could retort, __he had nodded to the guards behind him and had him escorted from __the__ room._

His clenched fist shook as he made the distasteful descent from his watching post to the grounds below. He was an _assassin_, not a _retriever!_ They should be grateful for his compliance in the first place, weaklings that they were. He skillfully stepped from one patch of ground to the next, his eyes skimming over the bodies with an expression devoid of compassion. _Remnants of men too weak to live._ He was different, and he knew it as surely as he knew the strength of his skills. _If I had been breathing here, as you all once were, I would not be a pitiful sack of bones when the dust settled._

He knew their fear—his political faction's fear of him; it was tangible in the air whenever he graced their headquarters with his presence. And he assured himself that lowly assignments such as this one would be avenged once he had the upper hand. He was in no hurry, now, to cause a rebellion amongst their numbers; to do so would be suicide, no matter how strong he knew himself to be.

He was not as stupid as the rest of his comrades… he would wait. And in the meantime, the partnership… his contract… was not so unfavorable. They would designate key political figures to die by his sword and it suited their purposes; he was able to satiate his bloodlust and perfect his swordsmanship on the bodies of condemned men. Some even considered him more terrifying than his predecessor… although meant as praise, the comment never failed to repulse him.

_Comparison to that brat is worse than having to walk this pathetic battlefield,_ he snarled, stabbing a nearby body viciously. His patience was waning, and the thought of having to comb over the area for it _again_ was getting his last nerve.

Then—a glimmer in his peripheral at first—he spotted it, catching the diffused sunlight on the field. Secretly thankful that his task was almost done, he raced over to retrieve it.

When he reached it, he almost laughed at the sight of his 'goal': a dead boy with a carefully placed slice to his left carotid, mouth opened in apparent surprise, with a gold-leaf container clutched in his bare arms. The cylinder was half of the boy's length from head to toe, and must have hindered him from putting up a fight…

What was in the scroll contained inside of the cylinder, which caused the boy to clutch it to him, even in death? His fingers twitched, curious, as he pried the container away from the boy's fingers. Perhaps the contents would aid him in his eventual revolt; they would not know he had read it, they would be too scared to ask…

"Shishio Makoto." A voice rang out from behind him, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down. He turned around with his blade at his waist, ready to strike.

A crowd of thirty men met his eyes, twenty armed with swords and ten with Western rifles; they quickly surrounded him. _The bastards must have been disguised as looters._ He did not appear surprised, and instead returned their looming threat with a disarming smile.

"Is this my welcoming party after yet another successful assignment?" The man who had called out earlier scowled.

"You are thanked for your efficiency and… dedication to the Ishin-shishi," he intonated, teeth clenched, "but your existence is too dangerous for the Ishin-shishi to realize its goal of a better Japan. Due to the high risk that your survival presents—"

"You're going to _kill_ me?" Shishio retorted, his throaty laughter echoing in the still battlefield. "You dare to try and kill me? You weaklings, you ungrateful sons of bitches…"

A shot rang out, and the flesh above his sword-wielding wrist exploded as the bullet found its mark. He continued to laugh, still able to point his sword in the direction the bullet originated.

"I'll kill you... I'll kill you all, and show you what how helpless you are in the presence of one stronger than you," he snarled.

Ignoring his taunts, the officer stepped forward, rifle in hand.

"Before we dispose of you," he said evenly. "Where is it?"

Shishio laughed again, and moved as if to slice his head from his body. Another shot rang out, blowing out his left kneecap and he fought to remain standing as he leaned on his sword.

So this had been planned all along… had his Sempai died in this same manner, picked off in front of a firing squad?

_'Perhaps that is why it was assigned to you.'_ Katsura's distaste of him had never been more apparent than now, in his recollections. Hatred coursed through his veins at the thought of their impudence; he bared his teeth. They would _learn_, and die by his hand.

"Where is it?"

He looked up at the officer with an indifferent smile, falling into his usual aloof expression. "It's not like it matters, anymore." He held the gold container above his head with his other hand, catching it and dropping it as he pleased. "You still want it?"

The man spat at his feet. "Yes."

Shishio's expression slipped into a snarl, his eyes alight with bloodlust as he tossed the gold container behind him, his sword held high.

_One more fight—I won't die here, they will __**know**__, they will __**recognize**_**—**

"Then tell me—"

A torrent of gunshots echoed in the dead battlefield, and a vicious fire soon welcomed the oncoming night.

_end._

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**AN:** This fic is a challenge of sorts from my boyfriend, who wanted to see what I could do with a modified acting exercise. 

Premise: "I'll think of a few lines of dialogue, and you have to end your story with that dialogue." And, here is said dialogue:

A: Where is it?

B: It's not like it matters anymore. You want still want it?

A: Yes.

B: Then tell me.

I decided to challenge myself further and see if I could get it done in an hour…what initially started out as a drabble ended up a one-shot in an hour and a half. Additionally, I had no idea the story would end up being about Shishio… I just started writing and it basically wrote itself. As far as I know, the story remains faithful to the manga/anime, since both are vague on the specifics of his death. (By the way, did you guess what character it was about before I dropped his name? )

Honestly, I'm still surprised I ended up with this story; I don't think I've ever finished or published anything that wasn't at least a _little_ romantic. Maybe you found it a refreshing departure from my usual Kenshin/Kaoru drabbles? Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!


End file.
